You Should Pity Me
by MissTempleton
Summary: Jane returns home and inadvertently highlights new challenges for Phryne and Jack; and Phryne's charitable endeavours make her want to ask some awkward questions. The last in the Twelfth Night series.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"JANE!"

Jack winced at the scream – it could not have been described as anything less. Mind you, as Phryne's ward had been in Europe for the past six months and was now approaching along the dockside at a sprint that reflected how much longer than that it had been since they'd last seen each other, a lesser response might have been considered by the ladies present as inadequate.

The Honourable Phryne was never less than adequate. In fact, she would generally be most appropriately described as excessive. Possibly superb.

Hands in pockets, he leaned back against the Hispano-Suiza and watched his wife break into a run before catching Jane in her arms with such verve that her cloche fell off. They swung each other, and smiled, and laughed, and smiled some more, and with arms round each others' waists, marched briskly towards him. A hapless porter retrieved the cloche.

That six months had, he reflected, made a big difference to the child. Barely sixteen, she was nonetheless exuding a confidence that belied her years. And what was more, exuding it in French.

"Y avait-il quelqu'un sur le bateau?" Phryne demanded.

"Pas du tout!" Jane giggled. Then she looked over at Jack and switched to English for the sake of good manners. "Inspector Robinson, hello."

Jack and Phryne exchanged glances even as he greeted her.

 _You haven't told her?_

 _When have I had the chance? Was I supposed to put it in a letter?_

 _Please, tell her now?_

Phryne twitched her nose.

"We're going to have to think of something else for you to call him, Jane."

There was no hiding the alarm in her ward's reaction.

"What do you mean, Miss Fisher?"

"Well, it's because – at home at least – I'm not Miss Fisher any more, Jane," she said gently. "I'm Mrs Robinson."

Jack and Phryne held their breath.

Jane, however, threw her hands in the air, gave an almighty cheer, and flung her arms around first one and then the other slightly bemused (but mostly relieved) spouse.

" _I was right, I was right!_ " she crowed gleefully. "When we did Christmas in July, and I tried to get you to kiss, and you started talking about the Latin name for mistletoe. I did it, didn't I?"

Helpless, they agreed that she had definitely been a shining beacon of guidance, and (another glance) decided not to mention any requirement to avoid testimony on a murder charge against a spouse.

The question of What To Call Jack was shelved as being far too difficult for the moment, and with her bags retrieved and loaded into the Hispano, he-who-had-yet-to-be-named drove it to 221B The Esplanade, while the womenfolk whispered, giggled, shrieked and otherwise made themselves a nuisance in the back seat.

It was, he decided, a Good Day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Mr Butler had excelled himself at dinner. It had been hard to decide whether to have something formal, which might not have suited everyone who Jane would want to see; and something around the kitchen table, which would not have suited Phryne's view of the importance of the occasion.

The dining table therefore groaned under the load of a buffet that would have put a ball at Parliament House to shame. Lightly dressed fish jostled with a cheese soufflé, and a whole roasted chicken was battling for supremacy over a goose and a clove-studded ham. Trifle, gateau and pavlova were all on offer for those who could face another return to the table, and there was champagne for everyone, on Mrs Robinson's orders, although Bert and Cec quite quickly reverted to their more usual beer, while Jane wrinkled her nose after a couple of sips and whispered to Mr B a polite request for sarsaparilla.

Dr Mac was there to welcome a young woman who she still believed would be one of the shining lights of the medical profession; and Phryne's Aunt Prudence graced the company, to reassure herself that Dear Jane was still on track to find herself a nice young man and settle down.

Jane, Phryne noticed approvingly, had already developed enough tact to avoid being cornered on either question.

Senior Constable Collins and Mrs Collins put in an appearance for a couple of hours to welcome the traveller home, and assured her that she would be most welcome to come and see their twins as soon as she wished – the babies were, after all, not going to be babies much longer, smiled Mrs Collins. Only Jack saw Hugh Collins close his eyes briefly in a semblance of relief.

Once the party had calmed down and most of the guests had left, Phryne, Jack, Jane and Mac were to be found collapsed around the fireplace; Jane was nursing a cup of creamy hot chocolate and when Mac elected for whisky, Jack and Phryne decided to follow suit.

The debate hadn't become any less heated since it was first mooted on the dockside.

"I can't call you Uncle Jack, you're not my uncle," Jane objected, unarguably.

"Equally, I'm not having you 'Inspector'-ing me over my morning toast," asserted Jack. Jane giggled, and then suddenly realised the enormity of the situation. _Detective Inspector Robinson At Breakfast_? She wasn't quite sure how she felt about that. Hastily, she stood up.

"Please may I go to bed?" she asked Phryne, who noticed that there was a distinct absence of Miss Fisher/Mrs Robinson in her address too.

Electing to ignore it for the moment, she smiled. "Of course. We'll have a busy day tomorrow – I want to take you shopping." Jane pulled a face. "The instant you stop growing, I will stop insisting on buying you clothes that fit, Jane."

Then she bethought herself of an idea.

"How about, as a reward, we see if we can meet Margery Johnson for lunch? I promised her we would when you returned home."

This idea was accepted with alacrity, and so it was therefore a teenager much more reconciled to a dread shopping trip who trailed up to bed, chocolate still in hand.

Hearing her door close, the adults exchanged glances. Mac broke the silence.

"Well, that went pretty well I thought? On the whole?"

Phryne gave a half-laugh. "She's so resilient, she'd cope with anything, I know – it's probably silly that I keep trying to stop her having to show it."

Mac drained her glass and stood up. "I should go, it's getting late, and we're not all ladies of leisure."

Jack correctly assumed he could ignore the jibe, but Phryne's hackles rose immediately.

"Well, I like that! I'll have you know I am devoting my day to the welfare of the young and helpless tomorrow."

"Yes, we heard," remarked Jack. "You're going shopping and then having lunch."

Phryne's nose went straight into the air.

"I am, as you say, taking my ward to replenish her wardrobe in the morning. We will then take lunch with a very good friend of hers, who was invaluable to us in solving a recent case – despite the Detective Inspector's woeful skills with a cricket ball." This got his nose in the air too – after all, he hadn't spotted Phryne offering to bowl to the Captain of Warley Grammar's 2nd XI.

"I then have to attend another of Aunt Prudence's Benefits, this time for the Wellborn Institute, which definitely gets the award for the most inappropriately named orphanage ever," she continued.

Mac wrinkled her brow. "Wellborn Institute? Is that something to do with Horatia Wellborn?"

Phryne nodded. "The very same, I believe. The woman's put her own funds behind it, and effectively calls the shots for the whole place. Quite why she needs to Aunt P to have a benefit I don't know, but I do know I'm instructed to attend, with shiny shoes and presumably open cheque book. What is it?"

This was at Jack, who had looked up and half-opened his mouth as though to ask a question. He hesitated, though, and closed it again.

"Nothing. There was something I read recently in a case file, but it definitely wasn't about orphans." He shook his head. "If it matters, it'll come back to me."

At this, Mac took her leave.

After a further half an hour, Jack had rejected Inspector (not in the office), Mr Robinson (not in Jane's own home), Uncle Jack (an established lie), Just Jack and That Copper (as Phryne got further down the whisky glass) and the task of Naming Jack was postponed in favour of more interesting activities.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The shopping trip was only a limited success, as Jane's and Phryne's taste in clothes were already starting to diverge. Phryne could see the potential in her ward's confidence and colouring to start to be a little adventurous; Jane, however, was still in the mood to see clothes as a necessary function, and refused point blank to attend Madame Fleuri's establishment to acquire a Party Frock.

Lunch, however, was a different story. Jane and Margery, a year apart in ages but close friends ever since Jane had sprung to the older girl's aid when the school bullies had descended, had more in common than ever now that Margery had actually been instrumental in solving a case.

They'd returned to 221B for the meal, where Mr Butler had contrived some salads to go with cold meats from the previous evening. Neither girl appeared to be particularly aware of the food on the table, which Phryne thought a crying shame, but kept her counsel.

At the start of the meal, they all raised a glass to the late Miss Constance Lambert, whose murderer Margery had helped track down, and the remainder of the time was spent dissecting the case, the school's fortunes since (mixed, as could only be expected) and Jane and Margery's current plans.

Margery sighed.

"My mother wants me to go to a secretarial college. I know I shouldn't say it after we've just been talking about Miss Lambert, but honestly, I would rather die."

Phryne toyed idly with the stem of her glass. She'd been impressed with Margery before, and couldn't blame her for wanting to cast her gaze a little further than the usual boundaries. "What _do_ you want to do, Margery?"

"Ideally, Miss Fisher? I'd want to join the police force." The girl's eyes shone, and she described her ambitions in such detail as made it instantly plain that this was no passing whim.

"Then why not apply?" asked Phryne. "You wouldn't be the first woman police officer – though there aren't many, and I can readily confirm they need more. Jane, I think the two of you should tackle the Inspector on the subject. Perhaps don't use any cricketing metaphors, though, hmmn?" she grinned at Margery, who laughed out loud at the allusion. Jane demanded to know the joke, but Phryne glanced at the clock and excused herself.

Fully expecting an afternoon stuffed with cocktails, she'd engaged the services of the red raggers to drive her to Aunt Pru's. Both Bert and Cec were waiting outside with the taxi, so she was chauffeured in style to a party that was already proving wearisome before she'd even arrived. How much more fun could she have had helping Margery plot her career strategy? she mused.

Not one to repine things she couldn't change, though, she put her best society face on and greeted her Aunt Prudence with a fair degree of warmth.

The cocktail mix was eclectic. An Amaretto Martini (which Phryne felt was a contradiction in terms) was to be found alongside a Negroni or an Aviation. For those who couldn't bear the thought of gin in the afternoon, there was champagne.

Aunt Prudence's guests were, apparently, all absolutely relaxed about taking gin in the afternoon, and a dozen coupes of champagne were becoming steadily warmer and flatter in the hands of the rather surly maid Aunt P had hired in for the occasion. Not being a fan of the almonds, Phryne stuck to Negronis.

The guest of honour was, Phryne decided, a Good Sort on the whole. Not the kind of lady whose company she would seek out, perhaps – oppressive virtue having something of a chilling effect on her hedonistic instincts. By the time she'd worked her way round the room to Phryne, she was clearly flagging a little, but The Message was delivered with undiminished fervour.

"These children need our help, Mrs Robinson," she insisted. "We give them a much-needed structure to their lives, as well as the basics of bed, board and decent clothing.

Personally, Phryne had always found a structured life overrated, but she smiled anyway.

"How do the children come to you, Miss Wellborn?"

Miss Wellborn gestured extravagantly with her martini glass. This may, perhaps, not have been her first drink, thought Phryne, who couldn't blame her as she sipped Negroni number three.

"In many ways. Some are sent to us by the hospitals or from state care. Often it's the church, when they have no-one else to turn to. And sometimes the poor mites simply turn up on the doorstep. When they have nowhere else to go, what can one do?"

Phryne inclined her head in agreement, and attempted to bring the conversation to an end by getting to the meat of the matter, as it were.

"Is there some way I can be of assistance, Miss Wellborn? Perhaps a small donation?"

Miss Wellborn bridled happily.

"Oh dear me, no, Mrs Robinson, that wasn't my intention at all in asking Mrs Stanley to bring together all her dear friends today. No, it was simply about _awareness_ – it is so helpful, I think, for people to _know_ that we exist, and that we can really _make a difference_ to a child's life."

She was becoming more and more loquacious, and so Phryne decided it was time to call the interview to an abrupt halt.

Raising her glass, she said grandly,

"In that case, Miss Wellborn, I can only drink to the very good fortune and long life of the Wellborn Institute!"

Miss Wellborn clearly saw no issue with this toast, and the two women clinked a convivial glass before downing their respective drinks.

Phryne placed her glass on a side table, and turned back to make a polite farewell.

In the meantime, both Miss Wellborn's glass and Miss Wellborn had made a swift descent to the floor. The glass rolled on the rug, and the lady appeared to be having difficulty breathing. Phryne dropped to her knees, trying to find some way to alleviate the attack that had overcome the philanthropist.

Within seconds, however, it was plain that the effort was in vain. Miss Wellborn's staring eyes pronounced her death as clearly as the notice in the following day's late edition.

Of a sudden, Phryne was aware of the hush among the other guests. One started screaming, and was addressed a brisk slap by a fellow guest who clearly hadn't become wealthy by suffering hystericals gladly.

Phryne looked up.

"Please could someone telephone Detective Inspector Jack Robinson at City South Police Station and tell him that Miss Horatia Wellborn has died suddenly, and Miss Fisher requests his attendance?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"If this is your idea of devoting yourself to the welfare of the young and helpless, Miss Fisher, I dread to think what you look like when you're hindering them."

This _sotto voce_ was all of Jack's salutation as he crouched opposite her over the body of the deceased.

"Don't be ungrateful, Jack," she admonished him. "I called you straight away, I've made sure everyone remains on the premises – no mean feat when the population consists of women who are rich enough to do precisely what they like, and usually do – and I've even preserved the victim's glass for you to test."

She unwrapped it from its napkin. "Here. There are some dregs in the bottom. I don't think there's much doubt about what you'll find, though."

He sniffed at it gingerly. "Almonds. Cyanide?"

She nodded briskly. "I believe so. Two of the cocktail choices were almond flavoured, which would have masked the smell of the poison perfectly."

Then she switched her gaze pensively to the glass.

"Which makes me wonder whether Miss Wellborn was the intended victim. It would surely be almost impossible to predict which glass a guest would pick up from the tray?"

Jack sighed. "Marvellous – so I have to sort through a room full of wealthy and powerful women to find the homicidal maniac who wants to kill purely for the joy of it. Collins!"

"Sir?" the Senior Constable came to join them from his position by the door.

"We need to question all of the guests. What they were drinking, where they were when the deceased collapsed, whether they saw anything introduced to the victim's glass, and whether they knew of anyone who would want her dead. You start with the waiting staff, I'll start with Mrs Stanley and we'll meet somewhere in the middle."

Collins sketched a salute and took himself off to the kitchens.

"You know most of those answers for my part, Jack – I was the one with her when she died, and I'd stuck to Negronis. As to the last question, I have absolutely no idea. I have no taste for that kind of oppressive do-gooder, but I struggle to believe that anyone wanted to kill her simply for helping out the underprivileged," mused Phryne.

"Then maybe it was the wrong victim after all," he replied. "Still, the only way we'll find out is by asking some questions." He straightened up and pulled out his notebook.

"Shall I come with you?" she offered.

"Better not," he decided. "You know them socially. It might not hurt for you to hear what Collins is getting from the staff, though? And keep an eye open for a bottle, or whatever the poison might have been carried in."

They separated in the hallway, and Phryne headed straight for the green baize door that led to the servants' quarters. She found Hugh Collins making heavy going of interviewing the temporary maid, hired to help the parlourmaid deal with the day's guests. Her chief refrain being "dunno", poor Hugh had yet to write anything but her name and address in his notebook. Hovering unnoticed near the threshold for a moment, Phryne listened and decided how best to Help Hugh.

She walked in and casually greeted him.

"Hello, Constable. Forgive me for interrupting – the Inspector asked me to come and let you know he only really wants to ask who was serving which drinks."

Hugh's brow cleared, and he turned back to the maid.

"So, Elsie, which drinks were you serving during the course of the afternoon?"

Faced with a question to which "Yes/No/Dunno" were clearly all going to be ineligible answers, the girl shifted her weight to the other foot, scowled and said, "Champagne."

Hugh was already telegraphing his relieved thanks to Phryne, but her attention was on the hapless waitress.

"But – Elsie, is it? I'm Phryne Fisher – nobody was drinking the champagne. Surely you weren't left holding a tray for all that time?"

This caused the girl's eyes to drop. After a brief pause, she admitted, "Nah. I was clearing up the empties after that."

"Thank you, Elsie, I'm sure that's all the Constable needs for now. Can she go, Constable?" she asked punctiliously.

Hugh took the hint. Phryne had long regarded Taking Hints as one of his major strengths, albeit they sometimes had to be painted in bright red on a sign held near his forehead to achieve the desired effect.

As Elsie stomped off, he muttered, "Thank you, Miss Fisher. I sometimes wonder if people realise how suspicious they make themselves just by not answering the simplest of questions."

"Quite right, Hugh," she agreed. "On the other hand, it might be worth just checking with Mrs Stanley's housekeeper, to see how she came by Elsie."

He took a moment to process the thought, and then nodded vigorously.

"I was going to speak to her next in any case ... er ..." he couldn't quite bring himself to venture onto controversial ground.

Phryne took pity on him. "It's all right, Hugh, the Inspector specifically asked me to come and see if I could help. I'll say nothing unless there's a need, because the rest of Aunt Pru's staff all know me well."

Thus reassured, he continued the remainder of the below-stairs interviews without incident. Elsie, it transpired, had applied directly to the housekeeper earlier that week for "any work that's going, if you please" and her references had been in order. The choice of cocktails had been Mrs Stanley's own, although the housekeeper clearly felt that gin was The Devil's Work, to which Phryne agreed with a completely straight face.

She had, after all, failed on more than one occasion to pass a useful day after a quiet evening spent imbibing the Devil's concoctions, In Moderation.

Of Course.

Hugh confessed himself more of a beer man, though Not On Duty.

Of Course.

At least one of the aforementioned statements was true.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

As Jack and Hugh found the ladies extremely amenable to a rapid interview process in order to reduce the disruption to their busy social diaries, it didn't take long for the initial questions to be completed; they found themselves on collision course for the spouse of a minor manufacturing magnate, in which the Senior Constable politely gave way, choosing instead to join Miss Fisher in her search for the poison bottle.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the search of the room was fruitless, and even an exhaustive search of the shrubbery nearby, in which Jack eventually joined them, had no success.

They ended up grouped round one of the pretty wrought-iron tables by the pool to compare notes. Or at least, for the Inspector and his Senior Constable to exchange glances and shake heads.

Jack sighed.

"So, no-one particularly noticed Miss Wellborn taking that particular glass; no-one saw anything being introduced to it; and no-one knows why anyone might have wanted her dead."

He massaged his temples – interviewing upwards of a dozen matriarchs seemed to have brought on a headache. Phryne got up and kicked off her shoes to stroll by the poolside, occasionally dipping to drag a toe in the water.

"On the other hand, Jack, I think we don't really know very much at all about the Wellborn Institute. Would it perhaps be worth a visit there, just to scout the place out? Perhaps just you and I? No offence, Hugh," (the Constable hastily disclaimed any such), "but a full-blown police investigation that starts by asking Who Hated Your Benefactor might make them … clam up a li – hang on, what's that?"

At this, both policemen turned to look at her, as she pointed into the water. They stood to peer in, and sure enough, there appeared to be a bottle of some kind in the bottom of the pool.

Jack looked around.

"Isn't there a net or something?"

"Yes, it's in the gardener's shed. You'll have to get the key from him," Phryne replied.

Jack hesitated. He hadn't yet decided to factor in the rest of Mrs Stanley's staff to his enquiries – but at the same time, he wasn't eager to alert them to the progress of the case until he had to.

"Shall I hop in and get it, Jack?" Phryne offered, already shrugging off the light shawl with which she was warding off the gentle breeze. "Hugh, turn your back for a moment, would you?"

"NO! Er … no, please don't, Phryne," he temporised. She looked at him enquiringly, and he groaned inwardly.

"Collins, go and stand on the path and don't let anyone come this way until I say so." He sat on one of the steamer chairs and began to remove his shoes.

Phryne's eyes danced. "Jack, are you sure? Honestly, it's very warm, and I don't mind a bit."

The weather may have been warm; her husband's glance was decidedly chilly.

"Just keep a look out, Miss Fisher. This won't take long."

It didn't take long; unfortunately, it took long enough that Mrs Stanley's approach from the conservatory was as ill timed as it was unobserved. Perhaps if Mrs Robinson had been better focussed on looking outwards than inwards, the whole sorry episode could have been averted.

Aunt Pru pronounced herself much recovered after a short lie down on the couch in her drawing room, deployment of her smelling salts and a stiff drink.

Phryne pronounced herself much recovered after a stiff drink, but it was a while before she stopped laughing enough to consume it without hiccupping.

Jack was undoubtedly scarred for life and no amount of strong drink was going to have the slightest effect. Using his wife's beautiful shawl as a towel provided a small degree of revenge.

In other news, Senior Constable Collins confirmed that the bottle had indeed originally contained a form of cyanide, but no-one appeared to be paying much attention, so he made a note in his notebook and tried to look nonchalant. No-one offered him a stiff drink.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

There was a remarkable lack of conversation in the police car as they drove to the Institute. Jack's face was like granite. Eventually Phryne sighed and placed a hand on his knee.

"Jack, darling, Aunt Pru was married for years, it's not as though the male anatomy was a mystery to her."

"I'd still have preferred _my_ anatomy to have remained a mystery to her," he replied through gritted teeth. He did, however, lace his fingers with hers for a few moments, before he changed down a gear to turn into the driveway of the Wellborn Institute. She judged herself at least partly forgiven.

Jack slowed as the car approached the front portico – a crocodile of children of various ages, the girls in pale blue pinafores and the boys in shorts and shirts of the same colour, came marching smartly out of the front door and across the driveway to the lawns. As soon as their feet hit the grass, though, they were off and running, squealing in excited play.

The detectives descended from the car and observed the scene.

"They look happy enough," remarked Jack. "Oops!"

This as a small boy, being chased by his friend, cannoned blindly into a little girl who was crouching to look at something in the grass. The girl was sent flying, and promptly set up a wail.

Phryne looked round for a responsible adult. Jack jogged across the gravel to the grass and knelt down to set the girl on her feet again. Chatting easily to her, he soon had her pointing at the beetle she'd seen, and telling him all about it. After a minute, he straightened and bid her a courteous farewell.

Phryne watched the episode expressionlessly, but gave him a bright smile when he returned to her side.

"A knight in shining armour for all ladies, Jack," she teased. "I'm impressed."

He grinned, and they turned to approach the front door, just as a mousy woman came to look out of it.

"Can I help you?"

Jack flashed his warrant card and introduced them. The woman looked instantly a little alarmed and Phryne was interested to see her glance over her shoulder into the building.

"We'd be grateful for a word with whoever is in charge here," explained Jack quietly.

"My name is Marion Toft – I am the Principal of the Institute," the woman explained. "You'd better come to my office."

They followed her across a dark, panelled hallway to an office that looked out over the front of the building – thus explaining how she had received an early alert to their arrival. She crossed to the window and glanced out, to make sure all was well amid the mayhem on the front lawn.

"Is that all the children you have here, Miss Toft?" asked Phryne.

"Oh, dear me, no," replied the older woman, still watching her charges. "These are the little ones. They've had supper, and this is them letting off steam before bed. The older children have just started their meal."

"How old are the older children?" This from Jack. When the Principal turned to him with a frown, he felt obliged to explain a little further. "I was not previously aware of the Institute, Miss Toft – I hope to get a better understanding."

Her brow cleared. "Officially, we stop looking after the children when they turn sixteen, but we don't turn anyone away, Inspector. If we can't find them apprenticeships in a trade, we will keep them on to help out here."

She gave him a direct look. "You said you hadn't previously heard of us, Inspector – can I ask what caused that situation to change?"

Jack cleared his throat. "I'm afraid we're the bearers of bad news, Miss Toft."

She said nothing, but waited, an enquiring expression on her thin face. She was, he reflected, not the easiest of interviewees. He had to resort to the formula.

"I am sorry to have to inform you that Miss Horatia Wellborn died this afternoon."

The Principal sat down in her desk chair rather suddenly. Her expression was – shock, certainly, thought Phryne – but she looked in vain for signals of grief.

 _Odd_.

"How?" came the breathless question.

Phryne glanced at Jack and, with his nod, took over.

"She was at Mrs Prudence Stanley's reception this afternoon and I'm afraid someone had put poison in her drink."

Miss Toft closed her eyes. Phryne regarded her face for a moment and continued.

"I was with her at the time, Miss Toft. I can assure you, the end was very swift."

"Miss Toft?" Jack again. "I'm very sorry to have to ask such a question at a time like this, but we need to know for our investigation – did Miss Wellborn have any enemies?"

A moment's pause, and the Principal's eyes snapped open.

" _How-dare-you,_ " she spat at him. "You are speaking of a woman who was a living saint. Do you see what she's done for these children?"

Phryne decided she should intervene. It probably wasn't just because Jack was a man, but …

"Miss Toft, you must understand – to find out who killed Miss Wellborn and why, we must understand her life. The Institute is an astonishing gift for her to have given. Will it be able to continue now?"

Her tone, as much as her words, calmed the other woman a little, for which the last remnants of forgiveness required from Jack were freely, if metaphorically, handed over.

"Yes …" Miss Toft was still distracted. "Yes, the Institute is the sole beneficiary under the terms of Miss Wellborn's will. With careful management, there is no reason why we should not be here forever."

Jack and Phryne exchanged glances. If this was true, the "money" part of "always love or money" that Phryne swore by in murder investigations looked unlikely. It was possible that Miss Toft was cooking the books, but "careful management" didn't suggest any fraudulent tendencies. Furthermore, judged Phryne, Miss Toft's clothes were smart but certainly not couture, and there was no expensive jewellery on sight in this unexpected visit from the police.

Jack spoke up again.

"Might it be possible to speak with some of the staff, Miss Toft? Or even some of the older children – with one of your staff present, naturally …"

It was as though someone had flicked a switch, thought Phryne. From being – if not relaxed, then at least acquiescent, Miss Toft suddenly became a small virago of barely-contained fury.

"Out of the question, Inspector," she stated flatly. "As far as Miss Wellborn is concerned, I speak for the school, and that is the end of it. I will not have prurient curiosity visited on the population of the Institute – children _or_ staff – who will already be considerably distressed when they hear the news it will be my duty to impart."

She strode to the door and flung it wide.

"Good afternoon Inspector. Miss Fisher."

Still as a statue, she refused to meet either sleuth's eyes as they slunk past her, offering polite thanks for the time she had allowed them.

In the car on the way home (Mr Butler would, Miss Fisher pointed out, be getting concerned about dinner) they said nothing until clear of the gates of the Institute – for all the world as though they could be eavesdropped upon from the office overlooking the front lawn.

"We need to know more, Jack," Phryne stated firmly. "I just don't buy her 'protective' talk. If she was so protective, why didn't she rush out to stop you talking to that little girl you rescued?"

"Perhaps even she realised that I was unlikely to start questioning a four-year-old about a murder, Miss Fisher," he retorted – then settled back in his seat and sighed.

"It's a blow, though. I don't have anything like enough cause to get a warrant, but there _must_ be more to it than she's telling us."

Phryne was silent for a moment, then turned to look at him. His eyes were on the road, but he could feel her gaze.

"What?" he asked bluntly. "I can tell you're scheming."

"Jack, why would you think I'm scheming?" she purred. _Because you only use that tone of voice when you know I'm going to hate what you say next_ , he thought.

"My husband happens to have a particularly handsome profile," _okay, perhaps not the very next thing,_ "and I'm admiring it." _It's coming soon, and it's even worse than I first feared._ "Why is that suspicious?"

"Because he's your husband, Phryne, and he knows you. He knows you very well." Eyes still on the road. Just.

"I was just thinking that," _Bingo_ "if we really wanted to, we could send a trainee police officer and her assistant in, undercover, just for twenty-four hours, to see what they could find out?"

The words 'trainee police officer' had him finally commit the rare solecism of dragging his eyes from the road.

"To whom are you referring, Miss Fisher?"

"Oh, you know her, Jack. In fact, she's already assisted in one of your cases, and you've been instrumental in making her the excellent and ambitious young woman she is today. It's almost certainly thanks to you that the state of Victoria might be able to count its female officers on the fingers of more than one of the Chief Commissioner's hands."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss Fisher, where these girls are concerned. I take it we're referring to Margery Johnson?"

"We are, and I know you've already dismissed the idea out of hand, so let's forget I even mentioned it."

If ever there was a way to ensure that they both knew she would eventually get what she wanted, that was it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

It helped Phryne's cause immensely that Margery was still in 221B when they got there. She and Jane had decided to unpick the finer points of some of Jack's most recent cases, with the assistance of a leftover roll of wallpaper, some crayons and paperweights, and Dot's scrapbook of newspaper cuttings.

She was so delighted to see her argument for their involvement being laid out before Jack that she almost forgot to wonder how on earth anyone knew about Dot's scrapbook.

Her memory of some of its more obscure contents and Jane's reassuring glance coincided, which made her marginally less unhappy to have another supersleuth under her roof.

At the time the miscreants were discovered, they were arguing over the physics of carbon monoxide in a watertight sailing vessel, which at least meant that there were no awkward silences – the discussion about how the ship's engine could have been tampered with, and (gruesomely, in Phryne's opinion) how long it would have taken the victim to die took up most of the starter and main course.

It did, however, mean that when she and Jack met eyes across the table as Mr Butler brought out the pudding, he didn't specifically state – as he could easily have done, without the need for words – that she should not raise the question uppermost in her mind.

Had she needed it, she found encouragement enough in that.

"Margery?" she said, her eyes still on Jack. No response. Her way was clear.

"There's a matter that the Inspector and I are working on at the moment, and we've come to something of an obstacle. In fact, there are two obstacles: first, that we have a question we're not able to ask; and second, that we really can't request the people who could ask it to step into our shoes."

Jane glanced from Phryne, to Jack, to Margery and opened her mouth to ask some obvious questions.

Margery placed a hand over Jane's mouth.

"Please tell me more, Miss Fisher."

Jane grinned and was silent – and resolved not to be left behind.

Phryne sat forward.

"First of all, Margery, what are the chances of you being allowed to stay with Jane for a couple of nights?"

Margery grinned. "Excellent, Mrs Robinson. Ever since Jane took on those bullies for me, my mum thinks she can do no wrong!"

"In that case, here's what we need you to do …."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

It was mid-morning of the following day when two very grubby girls made their way up the drive of the Wellborn Institute. They held each other's hands for reassurance, and were overawed by the splendour of the place in which they found themselves. When they arrived at the top of the drive, they hesitated, clearly arguing between themselves whether they should approach the front door.

As they did so, however, the problem was taken out of their hands as the door swung open.

"Are you all right?" called a voice. "Do you need some help?"

Still hesitant, the slightly taller of the two dragged her companion forward.

"Please, can we come in? We need somewhere to go that's safe."

"Of course," said the owner of the voice, kindly. "My name is Miss Toft, and I am in charge here. Come and sit in my office for a few minutes, and tell me a little about yourselves."

Even such a gentle approach clearly caused the girls alarm, though. Miss Toft changed her approach.

"As much – or as little as you like. I want you to understand that you're safe, and if that means there's only so much you feel you can say, I understand."

The two girls exchanged glances, and the elder spoke again.

"I'm Margie. This is Jen. We're … we had to get away. From dad."

Understanding and compassion immediately lit in Miss Toft's eyes.

"You don't need to say anything else, Margie – you won't be the first girls to come here for that kind of escape. Are you hungry?" Both girls nodded vigorously.

"Then why not come with me to the kitchen, and then we can get you both a bath and something clean to wear?"

"You … you aren't going to tell on us, Miss?" asked Margie doubtfully. "The police, or something?"

"Absolutely not," said Miss Toft vehemently, thinking back to the previous day's unpleasant interview. "You may regard us as offering sanctuary."

This apparently satisfied the girls, because they followed Miss Toft to the kitchen, both consuming an enormous breakfast (as though they hadn't had a perfectly good one at 221B The Esplanade a couple of hours previously). She then escorted them to the bathrooms, laid out towels and clean clothes, and left them to it, saying only "I will go and explain to Matron that you are here, girls, and she will be along shortly to show you where you can sleep."

Rather than risk being overheard, they merely shared a wink, and when dressed in their pale blue pinafores, emerged from the bathrooms to find a motherly, ample-bosomed matron awaiting them.

"Hello, girls – Margie and Jen, is it? I'm Mrs Lloyd, the matron. Miss Toft said I'd to find you somewhere to sleep. I think I'm going to have to put you in with the little ones just for tonight, until I have the chance to do some rearranging, but you won't mind that?"

"No, Matron," they chorused.

They were taken to a long, airy room under the eaves of the building, with a dozen beds laid out in two lines, each with a table, chair and small cupboard beside it. Most of the beds showed signs of occupation – soft toys were particularly abundant – but two at the far end of the room were empty and had only a pile of bedlinen on each. Matron helped them both make up their beds, and they were then instructed to lie down quietly until she came back to call them for lunch.

As soon as the door was closed behind her, Margery and Jane sat up and held a whispered conference.

"We can stay here till lunch, but then we have to be well enough to be allowed to look around the place," insisted Margery. "We're not going to solve this case if we stay in the dormitory!"

"Maybe we can get talking to some people at lunch?" suggested Jane. "Ask how long they've been here, that kind of thing?"

"Good plan!" agreed her friend. "And what the grownups are like, see if anyone will open up."

Strategy agreed, they both lay back, obedient to Matron's instruction to rest. After all, consuming two huge breakfasts in a single morning would make any girl sleepy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Lunch, for two girls used to boarding school life, was remarkably pleasant. The food, for a start, was freshly prepared and designed to appeal at least in small part to the eye as well as the stomach. Having to offer up a prayer of thanks for the benevolence of Miss Wellborn was a bit odd, but they supposed it was understandable, in the circumstances.

They were seated at a table with the oldest children in the school – a mixture of girls and boys, which was more of a shock than any of their other experiences so far.

 _Boys?_ Their reticence when they first sat down to eat was no pretence. However, the jollity around them soon prevailed, and conversation became more relaxed.

They had decided not to give away details of their own pretend "home life", rightly supposing that in such an environment people would be used to a need for privacy.

They found out little, though. Most of the older children had been at the Institute for years, and one or two were more interested in talking about moving on than about their current or past lives. A couple of the boys were going to a carpenter and a car mechanic respectively as apprentices, and one of the girls was trying very hard to pronounce her words well (or "speak proper" as she put it) because she was very excited to be given a try out as a junior assistant in a hat shop.

After lunch, the rest of the children went off to classrooms, but "Margie and Jen" were told that they were at liberty, for today, to wander around the building and grounds.

"Which, in itself, makes me think they have nothing to hide," said Margery as they explored the kitchen garden, picking off a stalk of chive each to chew. "There was no 'but whatever you do, don't look behind the red door', was there?"

"No," said Jane disconsolately. She was becoming very disappointed in their adventure – instead of thrilling opportunities to sneak about and find clues and possibly the odd dead body, it was much like being back at school. Then she brightened. "But can we go and look for one?"

They ended up spending a glorious time exploring the Institute. There were classrooms (peered into, not entered); a library; even a tiny chapel, with a relief carving of Miss Wellborn on the wall beside its door (presumably because to actually put her graven image in the chapel would have been a step too far, even for the Wellborn Institute).

Margery stopped in front of the carving and gazed at it pensively.

"What is it?" asked Jane, coming to stand next to her.

"Don't you think it's a bit … _much_?" suggested the older girl. "I mean, I realised how wonderful this place is for children with nowhere to go, but … it's named for her; they put up her picture next to their place of worship; they pray for her; it's as though she's a goddess of some kind … isn't it?"

Jane stopped to consider. "It's weird, but surely, as long as she was doing good, it's not exactly _a crime_ , is it?"

Margery didn't answer, and they passed on to look into what appeared to be a small nursery. Only three cots, of which two were occupied by infants, and a fully uniformed nurse in attendance, who smiled at them through the glass but markedly did not invite them in, so they kept going.

A walk around the extensive grounds took up the rest of their afternoon, and the evening was occupied with the evening meal (more prayers for their dear benefactor) and board games before bed.

They tiptoed into the dormitory where the little girls were already fast asleep, and got ready for bed as quietly as possible. Just as they were settling down, though, there was a sound from further down the room.

Both girls sat up, and looked at one another in the dim illumination of the nightlight at the end of the room. Then with one accord, they threw back the covers and crept along the line of beds.

Eventually, they tracked the gentle whimpering to the cherub in the bed nearest the door. Each bed had the occupant's name on the end of it, so identification was easy enough – or so they thought.

"Lucy? It's Lucy isn't it?"

"Noooo …."

Their confused glances met. Margery smoothed the tot's hair.

"What's wrong, poppet? Tell me what your name is, and tell me what's wrong? Hush, now. It's all right."

"Nan."

"Nan? Your name's Nan?"

"'s' I'm Nan, 'n I wanna go _home_."

Jane's eye's widened. She bit her lip, and whispered, "Do you know where your home is, Nan? Do you know your address?"

"NOOOO!" This was a wail, and the two older girls tried frantically to quieten the child's tears. Eventually, Jane hopped onto the bed with her, and cuddled her in. The whimpers became snuffles.

Margery tried a different tack.

"Have you got any sisters, Nan? Any brothers?"

A plaintive "u-huh" was all they could get, but affirmation enough.

"Are they here too, or is it just you?"

"Jus' me. The lady said there would be games and friends and nice clothes and nice things to eat, so I came, but then they said I wasn't Nan any more, and I had to be Lucy, and I mustn't tell anyone because then there wouldn't be nice clothes and nice things to eat any more, but I don't want the nice clothes and things any more, I just wanna go home and be NAN." Her voice rose a little at the end of this long, frightening monologue, but she was content this time to turn her face into Jane's shoulder.

Jane glanced at Margery, and then stroked the child's hair gently until the snuffles became gentle snores; then she extricated herself carefully and tucked the child in.

They returned to the other end of the dormitory, and as they were turning to climb into their opposite beds, Margery grasped Jane's wrist.

"I don't care how we do it, but we're making that rendezvous with Miss Fisher and the Inspector tomorrow morning. If one of us doesn't get there, the other has to try anyway."

Jane nodded. They both got into bed and did their best to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

In the event, it was easier than they supposed to get away – entirely because neither girl had got any sleep at all. Matron, when they were roused in the morning, took one look at them, supposed that their traumatic family experiences had kept them awake, and told them they would not be starting classes until the next day at the earliest, and that she would explain the situation to Miss Toft herself.

Accordingly, the two girls were perfectly at liberty to wander in the grounds that morning, and if they chose to push through a hedge rather than march out of the main gate, it was only to be expected. They ran to the tree-lined grove where Jack and Phryne had dropped them the previous day, and sure enough, the Hispano was waiting. They flung themselves into the back, and both started talking at once.

"Enough!" said Phryne firmly. "Margery, you go first."

"Miss, there are two things we found out. One is that the whole place is like a cathedral dedicated to the worship of Miss Wellborn – they pray for her before meals, the chapel has her image by the door, everyone speaks as though she's some kind of god. But the main thing we found out is that there's a little girl called Lucy, who must only be about three years old."

Jack looked grim, "They're not abusing the children, are they?"

"No, no, nothing like that – or at least, not in that way," Margery said hastily. "We were in the dormitory with Lucy last night, and she was crying." She looked at them both, and paused for effect.

"She was crying because her name isn't Lucy, it's Nan. And she isn't an orphan, she has brothers and sisters, and she wants to go home – she _has_ a home to go to."

She looked at Phryne. "Miss, what if someone's been snatching young children? Even babies? There are three babies there too."

Jack's brow was furrowed. "How can they keep these young children against their will?"

Jane spoke up. "Nan seems to have chosen to go to the Institute – she was promised all kinds of nice things by the person who took her. Then she was told she could only have the nice things if she pretended her name was Lucy. And she thinks she's been wicked – I don't think she has any idea that she's the one who's been mistreated."

Jack turned to Phryne. "Let's get back to City South. I've got a job for Collins." Then he clutched his hat as she treated his instruction with the urgency she felt it deserved.

By dint of leaping out of the car before it had stopped, Jack managed to be the first of its occupants through the door of the police station, and with a terse "Collins, my office" laid claim to his own seat at his own desk before any of his self-appointed assistants took it into their heads to do so. They certainly didn't allow a little thing like a Senior Constable holding up both hands at them in a vain attempt to hold them back get in the way; with the result that Jack's office was more than usually crowded.

Ignoring them all, Jack spoke to Collins.

"Constable, I need to you to get on to Russell Street. I want to know of any reports of missing children in the past – let's say, six months. Particularly the ones that remain missing."

"Yes sir." Collins hurried back to the desk and picked up the telephone.

Jack surveyed his uninvited guests.

"Margery, Jane, you've done good work – thank you. You might want to go and change out of those uniforms, though? Miss Fisher, I realise you will want to take them home, but if there's a return visit to the Wellborn Institute on the cards today, I'd be grateful for your assistance."

Phryne eyed him, and tacitly agreed. Neither of them wanted the girls involved in what might well prove to be a very unpleasant interview with Miss Toft later in the day. She stood up.

"Come on, girls; we'll need to return Margery to her mother in any case."

Both junior sleuths looked mutinous for a moment, but in the face of the united front of the Detective Inspector and Miss Fisher, accepted the inevitable.

"See you later, Jack," said Phryne, blowing him a kiss as she shepherded her charges back to the Hispano. He mimed catching it, and brought his fingers to his lips as his eyes smiled.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

When Collins put the telephone down, he didn't immediately return to the Inspector's office. Instead, he leafed back through his notebook carefully, to check details of the interviews at Prudence Stanley's reception. Finding what he was looking for, he gave a decisive nod, and knocked on the Inspector's door.

"Come in, Collins," Jack called. "What have you got?"

"Russell Street have currently got three open cases on missing children, sir. A four year old boy who went missing from a shopping trip with his mother to Buckley & Nunn in Bourke Street two months ago; a baby girl, snatched from a pram at North Melbourne station four weeks ago; and just last week, another girl, aged three, taken from her own front yard in Collingwood."

"Audacious. Have you got their names, Collins?"

"The baby is an Elizabeth Clark, and the older girl is Nancy Smith."

 _Nan_ , thought Jack. "The three year old could well be the one that Margery and Jane were talking to last night. What about the boy?"

"Sir, the boy's name is Arthur O'Shannessy." Collins was clearly intent on something.

"What of it, Collins?"

"It's the maid at Mrs Stanley's party, sir. Her name was Elsie O'Shannessy."

Jack looked up sharply. "Not that common a name, even in this city, Collins. It can't be a coincidence. Good work."

He stood up. "I think it's time we had another chat with Miss Toft. Come on – we'll collect Miss Fisher on the way."

Miss Fisher proved more than amenable to allowing Mr Butler the responsibility of returning Margery to her family, so all three of them were in the car that once again bowled up to the front door of the Wellborn. There was no welcoming committee on the doorstep this time, and so Jack rang the bell firmly.

There was a pause before the door opened, and a very harassed-looking Miss Toft stood before them.

"Inspector!" she exclaimed, distraught. "What … why … you can't have heard already?"

Jack guessed that this was a reference to the mysterious disappearance of two teenage girls earlier that day. "Can we come in, Miss Toft? We need to ask you some questions."

"I … no, I really can't …" she said distractedly.

"Very well," said Jack inexorably. "In that case, we can just as easily ask our questions at the police station. If you would step into the car please?"

"What? No! Oh, very well." She crossly stood back and allowed them over the threshold.

When her office door was closed, and Miss Toft seated at her desk, Jack opened up both barrels.

"Miss Toft, we are here to investigate the disappearance of three very young children over the course of the last three months – a boy and two girls, one of the girls a mere baby."

At his words, the woman went white, and gripped the arms of her chair.

Relentlessly, Jack went on, "In particular, we would like to speak to a little girl who I believe is referred to as Lucy. We have reason to believe she is actually one Nancy, or Nan, Smith. She went missing from her family home in Collingwood last week."

It was enough. Miss Toft dipped her head, and held up her hands as though in surrender.

Then she looked up.

"I suppose I should be grateful to you, Inspector," she whispered. "I haven't known what to do. How to cope. It was getting worse."

"What was, Miss Toft?" asked Phryne gently. "Was it Miss Wellborn?"

The older woman nodded.

"I don't know what started it, but suddenly she started coming home with children in her car. Of course, we love them, and care for them, but it seemed as though there simply weren't enough children for her – especially the very young ones."

She was gazing unseeingly in front of her now.

"The hardest part was when we lost that poor little boy to influenza. He'd not long since arrived, and we had a nasty bout of it – some of the younger children were very ill indeed, but most of them recovered. Not Paul, though – Paul died."

She looked at them squarely. "You have to understand – I didn't know what to do. I didn't know where he'd come from, and Miss Wellborn wouldn't tell me. She and I had a terrible argument about it, but it was no use. In the end, we simply had to bury him under the name we'd given him."

She stood, and went to the door.

"I'll have the girls fetched for you, Inspector."

A few minutes later, the door opened once more, and the Matron entered, carrying a basket in one hand and holding a small girl by the hand in the other. Gesturing to Collins to relieve Matron of the basket containing the baby, Jack crouched down in front of the little girl.

"Hello," he said quietly, with a gentle smile. She looked at him mutely.

"Is your name Nan?" The girl's eyes widened, and she looked up at Miss Toft. The woman could only nod at her in encouragement.

The little girl looked back at Jack, and gave him a hesitant nod.

"I was wondering if you'd like us to take you home, Nan?" he asked.

She opened her mouth and whispered something. He had to bend a little closer to hear, so she leaned confidingly in, her mouth next to his ear.

"'s please."

Jack said no more, but stood up, and held out his arms down to her. She lifted hers trustingly in response, and he picked her up, hefting her easily on to one hip. Phryne struggled to swallow the lump that had appeared in her throat.

"We will be back to take more details, Miss Toft," he said quietly, "but for now, the urgency is in returning these children to their parents."

The woman could not lift her eyes from the floor, but bowed her head in agreement.

As he got to the door, Jack thought of something else, and turned back for a moment.

"Oh, and Miss Toft? The trainee special constable and her assistant who stayed with you last night will not be returning." Her head snapped up at this, but he was already closing the door behind him.

Hugh sat in the back seat with the basket on one side and Nan on the other. Jack drove, and Phryne looked out of the window from the passenger seat, uncharacteristically quiet.

When both children had been restored to parents who were by turns disbelieving, ecstatic and tearful, Jack turned to Hugh Collins.

"Constable, I think we're going to have to visit Elsie O'Shannessy now. The address, please?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Elsie herself opened the door, and when she saw who was there, made to slam it closed again. Constable Collins quickly shoved a foot in the door, and Jack stepped up to lean his weight against it – between them, they forced it open.

"Elsie, there really isn't any point," remarked Phryne. "You might as well answer the Detective Inspector's questions. You'll have to in the end."

Jack walked past the girl who was standing flattened against the doorway of the house's parlour.

"In here, Elsie, please. Sit down."

With Collins bringing up the rear, the young woman had no choice.

"Elsie, did you have a younger brother who went missing from a shopping trip with your mother two months ago?"

At his words, she fired up instantly.

"Yeah – and what did you lot do about it?"

Jack stiffened. "My colleagues investigated, and have continued to do so."

"Sure they have," she sneered. "That's why a part time parlourmaid tracked down his killer while they were still writing reports and polishing their fingernails."

Phryne couldn't help wondering if Elsie had met Rossiter, the D.I. in North Melbourne police station. It sounded as though she probably had. "How did you find out where he was?" she asked.

"I didn't say anything to mum, but I kept an eye out in the newspapers for births, marriages – and deaths. When there was the announcement about the funeral of a little boy, I went along to the undertaker's to view the body. It was Arthur."

"The place was full of people from the Wellborn, and I heard two of them having an argument. They didn't know I was there, they were in one of the offices, but the door wasn't shut properly."

She looked from Jack to Phryne with tears gathering in her eyes.

"She helped herself to my baby brother, and she killed him. That's it. That's all there is to it. And she was the head of that place, and rich, and everybody did what she wanted. I heard her tell the other woman that it was none of her business where the child came from, he was hers to look after and that was that."

She was weeping properly now, ugly weeping, nose running, uncaring of the appearance she presented.

"What do you do when somebody's so rich they think the rules don't apply? I didn't kill her, Inspector. I simply put a stop to her. It was obvious no-one else was going to."

"How did you get the poison?" he asked calmly.

"Didn't your _detailed police work_ tell you my big sister works in the hospital pharmacy, Inspector?" she sneered.

"No," he said flatly, "but as I'm currently the only person likely to be able to prevent you from hanging for murder, you might as well tell me the full story."

So it all came out; the theft of a bottle of cyanide from the pharmacy; the society diary mentioning Mrs Stanley's forthcoming reception, gushing about the work of the Wellborn Institute; negotiating for the waitressing job, and finally, taking the opportunity of collecting empty glasses to doctor Horatia Wellborn's with poison. Disposing of the bottle in the pool was the work of moments, while the attention of everyone else in the room was on the dead body.

Jack allowed Senior Constable Collins to make the formal arrest; he found that standing up for Melbourne's finest didn't feel quite as fine as usual.

Conversation over the dinner table in 221B that evening was desultory.

"That poor woman," remarked Jack eventually, as he leaned back in his chair.

"Who? Elsie? She was barely more than a girl," replied Phryne.

"No – though obviously, yes, Elsie is to be pitied. No, I mean Horatia Wellborn. I don't mean because she was murdered, but because she was spending her life trying to spend money to acquire a thing she couldn't possibly buy. She wanted children and she couldn't have them – so I suppose, effectively, she was trying to buy them."

Jane looked at them.

"In the end, shouldn't we pity them both?"

Phryne smiled at her. "Yes, Jane, I think you're right. By the way, have you thought any more about what you're going to call Jack now?"

Jane hesitated. "Well, I have, but … the thing is, I know I said you're not my uncle, but I haven't got any uncles, and it might be quite nice to have an _honorary_ one – do you think you could be Uncle Jack after all?"

Jack stood and bowed, and went to stand behind his wife's chair.

"Jane, I'd be honoured. Now, Mrs Robinson, how about a walk on the beach before we turn in?"


	13. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Jack, don't you ever worry that we're completely wrong for each other?"

He shot her a sideways glance that was more than usually piercing. Keeping his voice determinedly casual, he replied, "I said when we were in Bairnsdale that over the months and years I'd thrown up every barrier I could think of between the two of us. It doesn't look like that worked, so no, I'm not especially worried just now. Why? Are you?"

 _Lightly breathe in. And out. And in. And wait for her reply as though you weren't terrified, Robinson._

She shoved her hands deeper in her pockets and kicked at the sand moodily.

"I saw you with those children. You're kind, Jack, you should be a father. Not gallivanting around with someone like me, who couldn't handle motherhood if it was presented gift-wrapped in bright fuschia pink."

Breathing all of a sudden became a lot easier. He stopped short, and drew her hands out of her pockets to hold them in his as he drew her to face him.

"Phryne, my love, for such a smart woman, you can be remarkably stupid at times. It may have escaped your notice, but you have an extraordinary capacity to care for people. Dot – then Jane – Kitty, in London – even, God help them, Bert and Cec. Your whole adopted family relies on you, and I have not the slightest doubt that if another such waif or stray crossed your path you'd drag them over your threshold as well." He paused. "My privilege now is that I get to watch you do it, and at the closest quarters, and even share in the experience."

Wait, was his habitual frown quirking up in one corner? Her expression had changed from suspicion to dubiousness; then a spark of humour lit her eyes; then warmth. He chose his next words carefully, one hand raised to trace a finger lightly down that sharply elegant cheekbone.

"At the same time, we both know that none of the protection we use is foolproof, and one day there might be an unexpected outcome of all those times I've shown you," _and, breathe_ , "how very much I love you."

Yes, he thought. That was stomach-churning fear in her eyes. Holding her gaze steadily, he spoke so quietly that she could barely hear him over the sound of the waves.

"It would just be one more challenge, Phryne, and we've handled plenty of those – without wrapping them in any colours at all. Don't lose sleep over it."

Drawing her into his arms, his voice was no more than a whisper in her ear.

"I have plenty of far more enjoyable ways I can suggest you lose sleep, and I'd be very happy to go home and make a start right now on a bit more sleeplessness. Shall we?"

Her nose was buried in his neck by now, but the very slight nod of her dark head was enough. He touched his lips to her hair, briefly tightened his hold, then released her. He put his hands in his pockets, she took his arm, and in step with each other and eloquent silence, they strolled home.


End file.
